Things that used to terrify me are the things that I've become."

What it would mean to be an American if being American were reduced to Guy Debord's "Society Of The Spectacle" (1967) . Something like Yelawolf, no?

Down This Road

Catfish Billy

Devil In My Veins

American You

Shadows

Daylight

No Hands

Hard White

Edvard Grieg's "Notturno"

I had the chance to record myself playing Edvard Grieg's "Notturno" this afternoon. I played on a Boston upright - which felt much better than yesterday's Yamaha. For my notes/thoughts on this piece, see my post from yesterday: Thoughts on Edvard Grieg's "Notturno"

I find that I play "Notturno" much slower than perhaps it's meant to be, but I have no problems with it. Here is a recording of a professional pianist - Alessandro Deljavan - playing the piece at a faster tempo, and with much more skilled hands.

I hope you have a peaceful Wednesday afternoon.

- F

"And a Heaven in a Wild Flower"

"To see a World in a Grain of Sand

And a Heaven in a Wild Flower

Hold Infinity in the palm of your hand

And Eternity in an hour"

- William Blake

Thoughts on Edvard Grieg's "Notturno"

One of the most exciting things about working at the Harold Washington Library Center is that, one floor above where I work, there are practice rooms for musicians. Each room has an upright piano in it. I've had some time to practice - and haven't done so nearly enough - but I'm getting there. I've been brushing up on a piece I learned back when I was about ten years old. It is by Edvard Grieg.

Edvard Hagerup Grieg, Norwegian Composer

1843 - 1907

The piece I've been practicing is "Notturno", which means little nocturne. A nocturne is a piece of music (or other artwork) that is supposed to suggest the night, or nighttime. For me, this piece brings to mind someone thinking deeply about something, coming to conclusions, re-playing situations in his or her head, deciding on certain things, changing ones mind and opinions on certain things as s/he remembers events, and all the while is pacing, pacing, excitedly, nervously, angrily, and lovingly, calmly, until s/he comes to a conclusion about the thing being thought about. This piece seems to be like a "thinking" piece. When I play it again, I'll imagine thinking at night.

(See a recording of me playing this piece here: Edvard Grieg's "Notturno")

- F

Our Honeymoon: England, May 2019

Although Dan and I will be getting married in September of this year (2018), we won't be going on our actual honeymoon until May of 2019. About a year or so ago, we chose England as our destination. Though some may not understand why we didn't choose someplace else, like somewhere more tropical to celebrate our nuptials, we find that England is the perfect "getaway". It is as much romantic, magical, and fun as it is full of culture and history. And, it is the perfect place to pay homage to our mother tongue. We've already begun planning our two week stay. We hope to find a cozy hotel in London and then rent a car. For the first week, we'll explore a different castle in the country each day. The second week we will go horseback riding, try falconry, and check out museums, bookstores, and libraries (...and bars). Some focal points: Stonehenge, The White Cliffs of Dover, Oxford, Tintagel Castle, and Arundel Castle & Gardens. So many of the things we both love have their foundations in British culture - I'm so very excited and I'm absolutely positive it will be nothing short of amazing.

I plan on writing as much as my body, physical and mentally, will let me. I plan on taking photographs with an actual camera, rather than my iPhone. I'll share edited versions here on my blog. Our tentative itinerary will look something like this:

Tentative Itinerary for F&D Honeymoon 

May 2019: ENGLAND

Day 1: 

• Arundel Castle & Gardens in the county of West Sussex, England

• Ancient Yew Forest Of Kingley Vale in West Sussex

• Ashdown Forest in East Sussex - The forest "The Hundred Acre Wood" from Winnie the Pooh is based off of. 

Day 2:

• Bamburgh Castle in Northumberland

Day 3: 

• Explore Oxford, England

Day 4: 

• Dover Castle

• White Cliffs of Dover

Day 5: 

• Windsor Castle

Day 6:

• St. Michael's Mount

Day 7:

• Tintagel Castle: place of King Arthur's birth and Merlin's Cave

Day 8: 

• Explore London. Maybe the British Museum? Abbey Road? Westminster Abbey? Big Ben? the Tower of London? Buckingham Palace? Hang out! Relax.

Day 9: 

• Stonehenge

Day 10:

• Try Falconry!

Day 11:

• Horseback riding (yes, it will be exactly like Cinderella)

Day 12:

• Devon, England

Day 13:

• Mayfield Lavender Farm

Day 14: 

• London, England ------> Chicago, Illinois

- F

Starry Starry Night

I ran away from home a year or so after high school. I left in the middle of the night with all my stuff (some furniture and clothes) and moved into a crumbling down apartment in a not very nice part of the city (just some months after I left, a man hung himself in the basement). The room I moved into was abandoned by a well-known party girl in the city. I didn't know a lot of people.

I was frightened. I was shaken up by what I was doing. I didn't really know what it was I was doing or exactly why. All I knew was that, at the time, it was the only option. I felt stuck. It doesn't matter why, it just matters that I moved because I had to do something about that utterly stuck feeling.

I took my futon with me to the apartment I was moving into. After it was set-up, I sat on it and took in my surroundings. I let the cold unease of not knowing what lay ahead, with no insurance, no money, no job, let alone not being in college, not having a plan at all, settle into my bones. I did know I had someone who could take care of me for a little while.

I probably needed therapy but didn't know enough at that time to seek it out. And even if I could, I wouldn't have been able to afford the travel there or the therapy itself. I chain-smoked my cigarettes with the window open, letting the soft bright light from my room shine out into the frigid air and onto the moving cars, bikes, and bundled up people.

At least my futon bed felt clean and fresh. But I was fearful. I was surviving another Chicago winter, but this time away from the only home I knew. I anticipated the next morning as I sat there staring out. I had to wake up extremely early to catch the Pace bus so I could start looking for jobs. But I dreaded it with a heavy depression that crept through my body like death. First of all, I didn't know where I was going to go. Secondly, I didn't know what kind of job I was looking for.

I wanted and needed rest, but I didn't know how to go about getting it. How does one "get" rest? It shouldn't be something a person must attain. It should be something acquired over time, something that a person has in reserve for a long day (now, I'm lucky enough to know how that feels). Maybe someday I'll write about rest, but this time my intention is to write about something I found in the garbage.

On my way to this apartment, before I even set foot in it, me and my then boyfriend found something sticking out of a dumpster. It was rolled up and we took it out (don't ask me what our rationality was at that time, but I guess we would sometimes look through the city trash for something interesting). The rolled up paper happened to reveal a print of Van Gogh's famous painting "The Starry Night". Or it was "Starry Night Over The Rhone". I can't really remember. Most of it is a blur. I remember the blueness of it. Such a blue.

After some urging, I took it with me. That print was the first thing I placed on the wall of that empty room. I placed it onto the dry wall and slowly, quietly, pressed in each thumbtack. Finally, looking up at it from my bed, I remember feeling, amidst all that fear and uncertainty and thoughts of a dire, useless life, a peace - a calm - that filled the air. That even if I had done this horrible thing, even though I may not make it in the world, even though I didn't know what was going on or what I was doing, that I could feel. I felt love and kindness and gentleness along with all the confusion and sorrow of wanting something that I couldn't describe because I didn't understand and didn't have the words for my own thoughts. The print of Van Gogh's painting gave my soul a focal point for a subdued excitement that maybe not now, but some time, everything would be alright.

I knew nothing of Van Gogh (I don't know much now either). But I realize that art took me away from that scary place and placed me outside of it, somewhere bigger, somewhere where I was able to connect with the world in a way that just... made sense.

In memoriam of that time, here are two versions of "Vincent" which touch my heart: the original by Don McLean and a cover by James Blake.

- F

"I believe it will create a nation of aesthetes."

I walked to Walgreens this afternoon, my path along the sidewalk of the busy Cumberland road, with my earbuds in. I walked fast, got what I needed from Walgreens, and walked back, not minding my surroundings too much.

However, I did notice on the way back a big sign I've seen a million times. Because there are two types of pictures that I've discovered that I'm drawn to, so far, on Instagram, I deemed this one not Instagram worthy. I'll explain in a moment.

This is a sign in front of these huge, bland, depressing buildings right next to and across from where I live.

Instagram has the potential to create a nation of aesthetes, with each user posting a picture aesthetically pleasing, as if everyone has taken an amateur photography class. The pictures are comforting, with the right colors and filters, the right angles and proportions to whatever is being shown. The other type of picture is of something arresting, a clear snapshot of what might appear to be ugly, meant to magnify something actually quite beautiful, unless it is already beautiful. Or else it's just selfies and people showing off what they've been doing or their new shoes. I'm not excluding myself, by the way.

But this sign is upsetting to me. It makes me feel queasy and sad and desolate. First of all, the font. The font, I believe, is Old English Gothic Type, or something close to that, a font which I love and which reminds me of the New York Times, or invitations from the Royal Family. But I would wager that the owners of the Catherine Courts have no meaningful ties to Great Britain, and that less than one percent of it's tenants do either. The style of the buildings have no relation to the English or their architecture either. The buildings are brick laid, square, looming and humongous, with tiny windows out of which fluorescent lights might as well sizzle and pop. Also, the fact that these courts need a phone number written so large that passers-by, either by car or by foot, can call in order to rent, suggests that the turnover of such a place is high, because who would want to actually settle in a place like that? Who? Who is the question. Who lives there?

Dan did inform me on one of our walks last week that Catherine Courts was once a rehousing building for people left over from the projects (yes, that would be the projects in Chicago, also known as Cabrini Green). But that was a long time ago he said.

The courts in Catherine Courts include one smallish fairy-tale courtyard (not kidding, this almost saves it), a tennis court, a pool, and an area to grill in the summer. They also have gravel parking lots full of really nice cars, which is a little questionable.

Places like this, which are scattered all over the United States of America, make me feel like a lost child, with nothing to grasp onto, and confused.

My only hope is that within those apartments are women, men, children, and young adults, and pets! Yes pets, that have every opportunity to take Instagram worthy photos within the walls of their home.

While the soon-to-be Prince Albert in Daisy Goodwin's "Victoria" believed that the National Museum in England would create a nation of aesthetes for being admission-free and open to the public, so too do I hope that citizens of the U.S. become aesthetes as they walk freely outdoors or wherever, and perhaps open their eyes, and furthermore, their minds to some of the uglier parts of the "landscape". Seeing might do something, perhaps something much more thoughtful than just going away.

- F

"How'd a nitwit like you get so tasteful?"

It may be insensitive of me to want, at this point in time, to re-read Bret Easton Ellis's "American Psycho" because of the explicit violence found within it. I apologize for thinking this scene (here shown in the 2001 film based off of the book) is what wedding planning can be like.  And I apologize a second time for wanting to read the book and knowing that I will laugh. It may not be appropriate, but it's the truth.

"Look at that subtle off-white coloring. The tasteful thickness of it. Oh my God. It even has a watermark."

Yup.

- F

C is for Cat Part 2

Grigio's purrs sound like the chirping of crickets in the middle of summer... 💙

- F

C is for Cat

Once when I was really small, about six years old or so, I went to someone's house. I don't remember whose house, but I remember they had a cat. And I loved that cat. I wanted to play with it, I wanted to touch it. So I followed it. I watched it eat. Below the far end of a long dining room table, the cat sat and ate from it's bowl of food, and I crouched all the way down and watched it - all the way from the other side of the dining room table. When it paid me no attention, I started talking to it. "Here kitty, kitty" I said, repeating what I had heard from other people. "Hereee kitty, kitty." I wanted to be it's friend so bad. And the cat, after looking up at me once, then twice (after I continued talking to it), walked straight up to my smiling face, took a paw, and scratched me across the cheek with it's sharp claws. Raw, bleeding, and itchy, I ran to my mom, smile spoiled, and crying hard. "What happened?" she asked. "The cat doesn't like me. The cat hurt me." "What were you doing?" "I was trying to talk to it but it was eating." "That's why." My mom told me, "You should never talk to cat while it's eating." My mom washed my face and slathered Vaseline on top of those long, painful cuts. And so I stayed away from the cat the entire time we were there. But I never forgot about it. I left that house determined to make cats like me, especially seeing how this one didn't even give me a chance.

Throughout my life I've met many cats. I have been fascinated by all of them. What I noticed was that every single cat I had ever met had never let me me hang around it quite enough for me to stroke it like it was my own. And maybe that was the problem, I never had my very own. I met kittens, too, and loved them. All the kittens I have ever met loved climbing and snuggling, but were still so squirrely. I wanted snugs.

One day Dan and I visited the local PetCo. The entire reason Dan and I went there is because we had just watched a Disney documentary at the theater about animals - "Born In China":

After the movie, I wanted more animals! Animals all day. So we went to PetCo, and then I met Grigio. I saw Grigio where all the rescued cats were placed. In that big wooden shelving box with tiers, and those little, clear plastic doors with the tiny finger-holes so people can rub their fingers up to the strays. We put our fingers in, and the cutest, softest tabby cat, colored in creams, browns, and black came up and nuzzled her little head against our forefingers and thumbs hanging through those holes. "I luff her" I said. "Let's try to adopt her. That one." Dan agreed. We looked up her name on this tattered piece of paper on the wall. We matched the cat to the picture, and her name - Grigio - was listed. 6 week old kitten, tabby, stray, 6 pounds. "I want her, Danny!" What a perfect name! Grigio! We love our days of wine and roses, and wouldn't those days just be that much better with our very own kitten?! Yes, yes they would. I filled out the application quickly and hoped for the best.

I really, really wanted to take Grigio home. I thought about her the next few days non-stop. How cute she was, how friendly she was. How I've wanted a pet for so long. And a beautiful pet cat... this is exactly what I wanted and I prayed, something that I needed. And kept thinking, "Well, what if we do actually get her? Then what?" And there were some problems too. "We will have to to see if I have an allergic reaction to her, Felicia." Dan told me. "I hope I don't, but I've been allergic to other cats before." "You won't be allergic to her," I said. "It won't be a problem. And if you are you'll get used to her." "We'll see," Dan replied. "I hope so too. I want a kitten too."

I received a phone call from Chicago Pet Rescue a few days after our visit. The lady told me that we would first have to have a meet and greet with her. So I scheduled one for the next day. I was so happy that I would be able to play with Grigio. I warned Dan to try his best to not be allergic. Funny, I know. I was worried that this might effect us getting to keep her. "I'll be fine," he said.

Once we went into PetCo, we met the lady that had called us, and she let Grigio out of the kittens' cage. We went into a small room with her, and then she placed little Grigio on my lap. I loved her right away. She was so soft and cuddly. She kept pushing her nose and face onto my neck and arms - "marking" - she was "marking" me I soon learned. Then she would scamper onto the floor and explore. Then jump back up onto my lap for more pets. Dan held her too. But I noticed that Dan's face was all red and his eyes were watery and bloodshot... and after the fifteen minutes we spent in that room with Grigio, he let out a big "ACHOO". The lady locked Grigio back in her cage with the other kittens and told us that there were two other families that wanted to see her, so we would have to wait for another call. That call would let us know whether or not she was ours.

Once Dan and I got home, he said, "I'm not sure we can have her, Felicia. I'm really allergic. I could barely breathe." I saw that this was true, I saw how uncomfortable he was. But I would not let Grigio go. It was awful. "You'll get used to her I said. You'll survive." Suffice it to say, it was a long conversation that ended with Dan agreeing to take Claritin every day of his life. For me. And my Grigio.

I was happy beyond belief the day we got the call back letting us know that Grigio was ours for the keeping. What a wonderful night. We brought Grigio home in a cardboard crate, let her out into the office room, and let her explore. She was happy. I was happy. Dan was happy. Finally! My very own pet. Dan was not allergic at all - with the Claritin - and guess what? He doesn't have to take it anymore! His allergies are gone (at least at home). We both think it was PetCo that made his allergies react the way it did - so many different animals and furs.

One day Grigio was laying on my chest, as she does a lot. She was looking at me, her eyes closing and opening and closing and opening - she was falling asleep. I was falling asleep too. Her purrs slowed and her head dropped, and she fell asleep. I napped and it was one of the best sleeps ever.

- F

Immersion (Notes from Cabo San Lucas, MX Oct. 2017)

I spent four full mornings and a bit of the afternoons in the sun while I was in Cabo San Lucas, Mexico last week. The mornings by the pools on the ridge of our resort were glorious. I sat on the lounge chair with nothing. No book, no magazine, no music. Just some sun block, my towel, and me. Dan was always already wading in the water looking out at the beach on the horizon. I was basking in the warmth, letting it fill me from head to toe, taking in the colors with my eyes, the blues, oranges, browns, greens, all a shimmer and aglow. After a little while I sat by the edge of the pool, letting my legs dip into the cool water. This, I said to myself, is one of my favorite things. I swished my legs to and fro, feeling the water caress my skin. It's something I've done since forever, like most people I think. Summer days by the pool dangling your legs in cool water, watching the pool reflect and refract the light all around it. My head was warm and empty of thoughts and it felt so nice. Finally I went all the way in. 

One morning I saw people in the pool with their paperback books in hand and one person was reading a kindle! I wasn't ready for that until later, though I stayed on my lounge chair. At some point the the initial shock of the heat and the vastly different atmosphere of palm trees, desert, cacti, bright buildings, brightly colored automobiles, loud noise from the marina, and everything else settles in and it feels natural to begin reading. I finished "Cat People" and "Heroes, Gods, and Monsters" on the plane ride over, and read some of Lang Leav's "The Universe Of Us" while in Mexico.

Midweek my family, Dan, and I went to a more "touristy" restaurant, as opposed to our continuous hole-in-the-wall trips to local taco places in town and the mall - which will tell you a lot about where you are too (in terms of the culture of the people). At this restaurant, where we saw an unbelievable amount of tequila poured down people's throats, the bathroom was lined with tiles that had Frida Kahlo carved and painted on them. Also, the toilet cover paper container featured Frida Kahlo, with a tiny butterfly.

I wonder how many patrons of this restaurant knew who Frida Kahlo was, what her life history consisted of, what her work meant. And I also wonder what the managers of this place were thinking putting her image up like this. I mean, it's more understandable when you are at a Maggiano's and there are pictures of Frank Sinatra, Marilyn Monroe, Sophia Loren, and countless others in black and white... singers, actors, models who had a profession closely tied to Chicago and were patrons of Italian restaurants. This seems more like Frida Kahlo becoming kitsch, and not in the best way. (That being said, I had a fun time. There was a live rock band and good food. Also, maybe Frida Kahlo would have laughed this off.)

One night at around 6 o'clock, Dan and I decided to take a walk down to the beach. We took off our shoes and pressed our feet into the sand, and it took some time for the roughness and then tickle to subside, but then we strolled comfortably down to the great Pacific. The crash of the waves, sending a gentle spray of salt water to my face and lips, the warmly wet sand, and the changing colors of the sunset over the water was almost overwhelming. Otherworldly. This place exists. It still exists. And sometime, it will be gone. 

Watching the waves build was one of the best things. This was a "no swimming" beach, understandably so. I was bold and walked into a wave to see how it felt, and the tide had a strong grip - if I had gone down just a bit further I might have gotten pulled in. Each time a wave came the sound filled me with such happiness. Dan and waited for the strength of the waves to grow a bit stronger, strong enough that the ocean would reach out and touch us. It finally did. The water was just warm enough, white with foam, and the breeze was cool on our tanned arms and backs. 

It makes me sad to know that many beaches are becoming more and more polluted with plastics and other trash. There are some beaches in the world, such as one in the Philippines, that has bottles and other garbage lined all along the shore. Beaches have become less than what they truly are in this 21st century. They become ill, just like all living things, and if not taken care of they may die soon. The experience I had in Mexico along the Pacific Ocean beach is something I'll cherish forever. 

On the flight back home to Chicago from Dallas (we had to fly to Dallas from Cabo San Lucas first), the pilot had mentioned briefly that there was a storm all the way up to Chicago, that it would be that way for for the entire flight, but that it was blue, not red, which meant that we could still fly through it. Once up the in the air, the plane shook terribly, made swoops low and high, making my stomach get that dropping feeling like twenty times. I was almost in tears holding Dan's hand. I thought a crash was imminent. Our window was open and it was pitch black except for the airplane's emergency lights flashing on and off on and off. The pressure was unbelievable, and I could feel the luggage below us moving around. While this was happening, the airline decided to play a video of an extremely happy woman saying thank you for choosing their airline with a big smile on her face, and talking about other wonderful things. This was not helpful at all, and actually made me feel worse. After an hour, we were finally steady. After the pilot said "Sorry about the turbulence, that was not good" he also mentioned a slight wind coming in from somewhere that I think he was just talking about out of nerves, because I didn't really feel anything. I gave him a big thank you on the way out - he saved our lives. The sky above Chicago right before landing was spectacular.

- F